


of shadows and salt-crusted air

by wildenessat221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, crowley being emo about stars, furniture as metaphors for things, lighthouses as metaphors for things, post-not-apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24684178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: After he’d finished playing his part in averting the Apocalypse, Crowley moved into a lighthouse.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	of shadows and salt-crusted air

After he’d finished playing his part in averting the Apocalypse, Crowley moved into a lighthouse.

It was a great, groaning beast of a structure which leaked oil from orifices it certainly shouldn’t have and rotted in paces that would definitely cause a collapse if not for a touch of infernal - aherm - scaffolding. Birds shat on it as though it were their God-given duty – Crowley really wouldn’t put it past Her, She had a lot of grudges to get over it seemed – and the botanist that lurked consistently beneath the mantle of demonism was most impressed with the fifteen or so apparently brand new species of fungi which flourished in the myriad of dark corners. 

It wasn’t the most “Crowley” of buildings. It lurked a good decade in the past where he liked to remain on the threshold of the present at all times (or across it, if he could manage – he favoured the phrase “before it was cool” _long_ before it was cool.) It was draughty and shuddered at night-time and was never free of sand. The dampness in the walls sometimes leaked into his joints, so he found himself getting rid of them more often than he normally enjoyed and adopting his snake form. 

  
But, he painted the walls in shades of red and black and brought his throne from the London flat. He adorned every windowsill with house plants and packed the shelves tightly with CDs, only leaving the ones he _really_ didn’t like to round off at the edges into ‘Radio Gaga’ in the Bentley. (Among those that remined – ‘Spice’ by the Spice Girls, ‘Everything Changes’ by Take That, and the original Broadway cast recording of ‘Mean Girls: The Musical.’) And of course, it had the benefit of being naturally spooky. 

  
Loved a bit of spooky, Crowley. 

  
What exactly drew Crowley to the lighthouse, he couldn’t say. The answer would have been obvious a hundred years ago, when he was still on the payroll and boats still relied on lighthouses. It was the perfect opportunity for some demonic activity. Luring unsuspecting vessels into the jagged rocks and hearing the pathetic ‘glug glug glug’ as the cargo sank. All from the comfort of his own home – feet up, the fledgling BBC jabbering away on the radio, _nice one Master Crowley, pat on the back, here, we got you a desk toy; it jiggles!_

  
But it wasn’t a hundred years ago and he wasn’t on the payroll. He was just a… guy. An eccentric guy who saw a lonely old building and had it quietly removed from RightMove where it had been twiddling its lethargic thumbs for close to a decade. 

  
_(He was a lonely little boat, rowing towards an artificial blinking light because the lights he’d breathed into the sky didn’t want him anymore.)_

  
***  
 _“to the world.”_

  
_“to the world.”_

  
_glass on glass_

  
_chink_

  
_two warm smiles_

  
_a slow exhale_

  
_teaspoon against china_

  
_chink chink chink_

  
_a dribble of tea off the curve of the spoon_

  
_drip_

  
_drip_

  
_pursed lips_

  
_eyes towards the table_

_an intake of breath, prelude to a nervous sigh_

  
_“crowley”_

  
_a languishing tilt of the head_

  
_eyes obscured by sunglasses, but face clearly the picture of contentment_

  
_“i’m sorry but… it might still take time”_

  
_face remains cast in contentment_

  
_voice perhaps betrays otherwise, just an octave too high_

  
_“hmm?”_

  
_no tea left on the spoon, chinks it on the saucer anyway_

  
_“it might still take time. for… for me”_

  
_a pointer finger against sunglasses, hitching them up_

  
_a tongue that narrows and forks in two inside an anxious mouth_

  
_“it? what’s it when it’s at home?”_

  
_fingers drum on a napkin_

  
_a nibble of the bottom lip_

  
_“well… you see i rather thought –“_

  
_“cat’s mother, iguna’s gran, armadillo’s… paternal second cousin?”_

  
_rising inflection, a nervous barked laugh_

  
_the fingers on the napkin wander beneath the table_

  
_find another set of fingers_

  
_first just a gentle touch, then they thread together_

  
_like gold thread on a loom_

  
_“i rather thought that the obvious sequel to this little… misadventure… cultivated in us spending more of our time together”_

  
_a brain seizes up, threatens to fall out of an ear, a heartbeat that was only there by preference halts of its own accord_

  
_“that’s what the romance novels seem to imply anyway”_

  
_a smile which would look like a smirk on anyone else_

  
_but on aziraphale just looks like a welcome mat_

  
_the hand under the table begins to tremble within the warm grasp_

  
_the heartbeats begin again, this time like the wings of a hummingbird_

  
_“…you’re the trusted authority on these things I suppose”_

  
_the tone is faint. sandpaper threatens as emotion begins to swell_

  
_“i don’t read, see”_

  
_a light chuckle_

  
_crowley wonders how aziraphale is managing to be light_

  
_he himself feels simultaneously like he may detach and float off into the atmosphere at any moment_

  
_and like he’s rooted to the ground by lead lined boots_

  
_“no, you don’t, do you. well I can assure you, that tends to be the way of things”_

  
_“…oh”_

  
_words rush through his head_

  
_i’ve wanted this for six thousand years you make everything a bit more okay you make me forget the bits of myself I want to forget you make me feel like a person you make me feel good I can’t imagine a safer place than your arms you’re beautiful youre etheral I love you I love you IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou –_

  
_he bites his tongue against all of them and instead whispers_

  
_“i still… go too fast though?”_

  
_aziraphale’s thumb shifts, ghosts over the top of crowley’s hand like a reverent breath_

  
_“no. not you, not this time. just a… a little while longer.”_

  
_crowley sits back for a moment, the back of his head makes contact with the backrest_

  
_he shuts his eyes behind the glasses_

  
_his hand is still in aziraphale’s_

  
_“okay” he whispers_

  
_“okay”_

  
_and that night he crawls between his sheets and sobs blissfully into his pillow as six thousand years of history and six thousand years of future wash over him like a tidal wave crashing into a lighthouse_

  
***  
While he waited for Aziraphale, Crowley decided to put his mind to something useful. The lighthouse really wouldn’t have been wonderful for WiFi had Crowley not been there, but Crowley of course _was_ there so the dilapidated old tower received the strength of fibreoptics usually reserved for the worthiest of scientific laboratories and the nerdiest of nerd dens. 

  
He enrolled in an online language course. Then he enrolled in another. And another. Then a couple more. 

  
His Latin and Ancient Greek, though unpractised, remained crystalline, rather like how grandmothers tend to remember the lyrics to Bing Crosby songs more successfully than grandchildren’s birthdays. But his grasp of modern languages were rudimentary at best – he doubted he’d be able to get himself to the beach in 21st Century France without a little _mental encoruagement._

  
Of course, he could quite easily apply this _mental encouragement_ to himself – it was almost too easy to envision him sporting questionable facial hair in a coffee shop of questionable repute professing questionably that _you simply haven’t read Tolstoy until you’ve read it in Russian._ That kind of… Supernatural downloading was fine for some things. He hadn’t wanted _at all_ to sit down and learn the ins and outs of electrical energy when he was dicking about with the BT Tower, for example, so he simply let that take up residence in his head. 

  
His plants though, he’d taken time over his plants. He’d observed them, experimented with them, charted them (shouted at them.) 

  
Why? 

  
Because he _cared_. 

  
And he cared about language too. If six thousand years alive had taught him anything, it was that communication was one of the most valuable tools available to human beings and human being shaped creatures alike. In his payroll days, he’d have taken a misplaced snide remark over an axe as a weapon of destruction any day of the week. He’d watched entire civilisations rise and fall in the space of a few conversations. 

  
He payed attention, he waited, he learned. 

  
And the first phrase he learned – in French, Spanish, Punjbabi, Urdu, Korean, Portuguese, Arabic and Turkish – was “I love you.” 

  
It was on the tip of his tongue and died in his mouth on the day that the rattling tourist bus spat out a gentleman in a three-piece cream suit and bowtie onto his doorstep. 

  
“Long time no see,” he said instead. Or rather he tried to. His snake tongue was tied in so many knots that he feared it may snap from the roof of his mouth. 

  
***

  
“Well, I think it’s positively charming!” 

  
And he clearly did. His eyes were alight and alive the second he stepped over the threshold, prim dress shoes sinking comfortably into the dusty shag rug draped across the floor of the hallway. He dragged his gaze across every wooden panel, stopping at each nail, nut and bolt. He saw history in the things of a place in a way that Crowley didn’t, either a side effect of or contributing factor to his borderline hoarding tendencies. (With emphasis on the “hoarding” rather than the “borderline.”) 

  
“Yeah well…” Crowley mumbled, watching Aziraphale’s self-guided tour and worrying his fingertips over his hip. “Uh… tea?” 

  
“Lovely,” Aziraphale replied absent-mindedly, peering at a notch in the wallpaper with ardent fascination. 

  
Crowley discreetly snapped his fingers and the lighthouse had a kitchen, in which the kettle had conveniently just boiled. 

  
His fingers shook a little as he herded the tea bag around the water and he mentally cursed the draught that crept through the join between the window and the wall. A chuckle from the self-aware version of himself that dwelled deep down near where his spleen would be if he were a human began to rise to the edge of his consciousness and he determinedly shoved it back down. 

  
“So…” he began, sauntering back into the living area and handing over the mug of tea, “You like it then?” 

  
“Oh, _indeed_.” A prim version of a childish grin was blossoming across his face. “It is utterly wonderful, so steeped in history, so lived, and yet so…” he indicated vaguely towards a sleek black chair opposite, red imitation scales running across the arms, “ _Delightfully you_.” 

  
“Well…” Crowley felt a little light-headed. Blasted paint fumes. He shushed the self-aware him before it could say anything about him not having touched a paint brush in months. “Ta.” 

  
Aziraphale smiled and took a sip of his tea. 

  
Crowley sank into the black chair and took in the image in front of him.

  
Aziraphale had gravitated towards one of the few pre-existing items of furniture that he’d decided to keep. For the sake of… historical interest. It was a frayed, threadbare cream sofa, swaddled in ancient knitted blankets with tassels hanging off it. It had greyed in some places, grown a cosy appearance from use, but had somehow managed to remain plump and inviting across its presumably long history. 

  
Crowley watched as Aziraphale settled into it, letting out a soft noise of contentment as his cup of tea clearly hit the spot. Watched as he drummed his fingers on the arm, gazing wistfully around the room. 

  
And Crowley had to admit that perhaps it was more than a lonely affinity which had drawn him to the lighthouse. 

  
***  
Aziraphale wanted to see the light in operation. 

  
Crowley had never seen the light in operation, because the light hadn’t been in operation since 1927, but who was he to disappoint Aziraphale. 

  
So, he drew forth some energy from a far flung past and thrust light into the dormant lamp. It glowed like a Supernova and so did Aziraphale, casting him bright and beautiful against the soft, dark Autumn breeze. Rosy cheeked and wonderful, Crowley wanted to choose a language to say the three words that had always died in his throat, but Aziraphale spoke first, gentle and grave. 

  
“They still make you sad, don’t they?” he breathed. “The stars.” 

  
Crowley opened his mouth. Shut it. Gazed across the inky ocean, golden eyes exposed and squinting against the salty air. Felt Aziraphale’s warm body inch closer to his. Looked to the sky. The stars were obscured by the light of the lamp, and the lamp was foregrounded by Aziraphale’s shadow. 

  
“No.” He brushed his fingertips against Aziraphale’s. “Not anymore.” 

  
It wasn’t entirely true, but it was tenfold truer than he’d ever dared hope, and that was enough for that moment. 

  
***  
“So…” Crowley asked, picking at the material of his skinny jeans and letting it ping back to his thigh, “Are you staying?” He paused and cleared his throat. “Tonight?” 

Aziraphale, beside him on the ratty sofa and staring at the toe of his crossed legs, smiled softly. “If you’ll have me.” 

  
“And…” his snake tongue licked his lips. Scales blossomed across his back. “Tomorrow night? And… For… fuck… Forever?” 

  
Aziraphale chuckled softly. 

Crowley swallowed hard and looked Azirapahle directly in the eye.

  
“Will you stay here forever, Aziraphale?”

  
Aziraphale drew closer. Flattened a gentle hand against Crowley’s ribcage. “If you’ll have me.” 

  
And then their lips were touching, in a firework, emblazoned, exquisite, _oh-so-bloody-simple_ kiss of six thousand years in the making that tasted like salt-crusted air and felt like the docile charting of a roadmap home.

  
Were Crowley less distracted, he would have said “I love you” in every one of the languages he knew _and_ tried in a few he didn’t know. 

  
Aziraphale heard them all anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies! Comments much appreciated.


End file.
